


A Tale of Sand and Smoke

by circadian_rythm



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms
Genre: Action/Adventure, Additional Warnings In Author's Note, Braavos, Essos, Multi, Not Suitable/Safe For Work, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Rhaenys Lives AU, There Will be Dragons
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-09-17
Updated: 2018-07-20
Packaged: 2018-12-31 00:54:22
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,170
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12121014
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/circadian_rythm/pseuds/circadian_rythm
Summary: "On Wings of FuryAnd Wings of GoldThe Dragon of Dorne Rises."Rhaenys Targaryen, sole survivor of the slaughter of her family in King's Landing, has been raised with the knowledge that one day she and those that support her will return to Westeros to reclaim the Iron Throne. When word reaches them that Danaerys Targaryen is betrothed to Khal Drogo of the Dothraki, Rhaenys and her followers begin putting plans in motion, in the hopes that the true heir to the Iron Throne will sit upon it once again.





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> This story will follow more closely with the events of the books than the TV show, for various reasons. I do not approve of how the show handled Dorne and the Martells, and completely erased Young Griff and that entire plotline, so I will be rectifying that to some degree. I will try and make certain that those who have not read the books and only seen the TV show will be able to follow, and if anyone has any questions regarding certain characters, feel free to ask me. 
> 
> This is fanfiction of a very graphic book series, so it should be noted that there will be plenty of mature content, including nudity, sex, mentions of abuse, violence, etc. That being said, I will have notes at the beginning of each chapter, with warnings for any specific triggers that will be within. The world is a dark enough place in real life, I'd like to shine a light more on overcoming adversity than painfully detailing suffering where I can.

 

_Her little brother wouldn’t stop crying._

_She heard it through the walls, echoing against stone as she pressed herself as far under the bed as she could. The air was hot and thick and full of dust, and Balerion squirmed in her arms, trying to get free. She tightened her hold, ignoring the angry scratches he left on her arm._

_Her mother was shouting now. She couldn’t hear the words, just the high-pitched pleas of a desperate and frightened woman. Aegon continued to cry, shrill little whimpers until a man’s gruff voice, and her mother’s keening wail._

_Septa Aliss told her to go find her mother, when the screaming had begun. When the pounding at the front gate had become so loud the stones had trembled with each strike. But she’d been so afraid…so afraid. She’d gone to the only place she knew was safe._

_Papa’s room._

_Papa, who called her his little princess, and who petted her hair and told her stories and sang her to sleep. Papa, who was going to be king and who was the strongest man in the world. Papa would protect her. He’d find her, and kill all the bad men, and go rescue mama and Aegon from whoever was hurting them._

_Papa would come, he_ would _. She just needed to hide until then._

 _She could still hear her mother screaming, but Aegon had gone quiet. Balerion yowled, tiny claws digging into her hand as she tried not to cry. No crying, she needed to be strong. Dragons don’t cry and papa says she’s a dragon._ She had to be brave _._

_She hated the sounds outside. She wanted to put her hands to her ears to block them out—all the shouting, and mama’s screams, and the BOOM BOOM of papa’s door before wood cracked and splintered and heavy footsteps pounded across stone._

_But if she let go, Balerion would escape, and she was too afraid to be alone. So she listened to the sounds until her mother stopped screaming, and the footsteps stopped as well, followed by harsh voices and the sound of someone pulling apart her father’s chest to look inside it._

_That was when a hand tightened around her ankle and pulled._

_She shrieked, letting go of Balerion as she scrambled to grab ahold of the bed to keep herself under it. Her nails scraped against stone, ripping as the shadowy darkness of the bed gave way to blinding light and cruel laughter._

_No, no no no no—another kick, and a curse, and the sound of a blade being drawn._

_“Papa!” She screamed, as pain erupted in her chest, “Papa—”_

Rhaenys jolted awake, lurching upwards in a panic as her eyes snapped open and her heart hammered against her chest like a war drum. For a split second she found herself transported back to that small crawlspace under her father’s bed, clutching Balerion close as she listened to the screams echoing down the hallway.

But there were no screams now; just the groan of wood and the soft thump of footsteps above her. And no hand around her ankle, pulling her out from under her father’s bed; just the soft and steady rocking of a boat on calm waters.

It was just a dream, she told herself as she brushed a few strands of sweat matted hair from her forehead. Just a dream.

She wished that meant it had never been real.

The first thing she did as she slipped off her bunk was to grab the decanter of wine from the chest nearby. It was thick and sweet, and seemed to stick to her throat as she swallowed. The echoes of her own screams and the phantom pains in her chest faded, at least.

She tucked the ends of her shirt into her breeches, feet planted firmly against the rolling pitch of the ship over a swell, and slid on her tunic with deft hands. As she laced up her boots she glanced to the other side of the cabin.

Septa Lemore’s bunk was tidily made and empty.

She expected as much. The older woman always seemed to awaken before her. Septas were meant to awaken before the dawn, to begin their prayers to the Seven, and to chant their soft litanies from the Seven Pointed Star.

Septa Lemore, Rhaenys knew, was not doing any of those things. Likely the older woman was in the main cabin, making plans with the captain and the others over their next move; perusing maps and exchanging witty remarks with those present. Rhaenys was glad for it. She did not think that she’d have taken well to a religious tutor that had forced her to sit in their cabin and recount how the gentle Mother and the virginal Maiden wished her to take after them.

She hurried up the worn wooden stairs, hearing the telltale creak on the third as it groaned under her boots, and fumbled with her sword belt as she climbed. Something in the air felt different today. Something was _happening_ , or would happen soon.

Somewhere above her, Jaka’s earth-shattering bellow echoed across the deck. She grinned to herself, as she knocked on the door to the captain’s quarters, knuckles brushing against polished wood. If she hadn’t already been awake, the first mate’s shout would have certainly done so.

“Come in,” Someone called from inside, and Rhaenys did so.

Inside, several people leaned over a table in the middle of the room, surveying the map upon it and talking amongs themselves. As Rhaenys entered they all looked up. Septa Lemore was among them, and nodded her head in a small bow, before turning back to speak with the captain.

Captain Hao Su was a stocky woman from Yi Ti, with close cropped hair and a large, uneven nose—a product of it being broken one too many times. She was a head shorter than Rhaenys, but had the commanding air of someone much taller.

To Hao Su’s right stood Haldon Halfmaester, Rhaenys’ chief tutor and the healer aboard the _Sea Whisper_. His pinched face was even tighter with a thoughtful frown, as he stroked his chin with one hand, cool grey eyes intent upon the map before him; the look upon his face was one she’d seen often as he’d looked down at the _cyvasse_ board during a break between lessons. She’d learned early on that these _cyvasse_ games were simply another form of lessons.

The last person at the table smiled at the sight of her, winkles at the corners of his grey-green eyes deepening with the movement. “Nadia, there you are. Come in dear, and close the door behind you.”

Rhaenys did as she’d been told, closing the door and walking toward the table. Nadia Sand was the name she’d been given long ago to hide her identity, but it was no more her name than Belin Hurrey was to the older man standing before her.

Gerion Lannister had not gone by his true name for years, not since the day he’d set sail on the Laughing Lion on a fool’s errand to the ravaged lands of Old Valyria to reclaim the Lannister’s ancestral sword. A ruse, known only to the few who knew the identity of the young child tucked away in his cabin.

They were both older now, she and the man who had rescued and raised her.

There was another knock at the door as Rhaenys settled between Septa Lemore and Gerion, this one louder and more demanding than Rhaenys’ had been, and the door opened before the intruder could be invited inside. Rhaenys saw Hao Su’s lips thin in displeasure, jaw clenched tight at the offense.

“Stand outside, Duck, and keep watch.” The intruder barked at a tall man behind him, before closing the door once again and stalking inside. He paused only to give Rhaenys a nod, the closest to a bow that could be shown without fear of discovery. Sir Jon Connington had been one of her father's closest friends, and had been a staltwart presence of her childhood since the age of eight, when she and Gerion had headed across the Narrow Sea for the first time. 

With everyone gathered, Rhaenys knew that the feeling in her gut had proven true. Something was about to happen, something _very_ important. All those who had saved the young heir to a bloody throne had gathered as one…it could only be to make good on the vow they’d all made so many years ago.

Rhaenys swallowed, and wiped the sweat from her hands onto the front of her tunic.

“Danaerys Targaryen has been promised to Khal Drogo of the Dothraki.”

Rhaenys glanced up at Haldon’s news, tearing her gaze away from image of Sunspear on the captain's map to look him in the eyes. “To Kahl Drogo?”

“An army of Dothraki screamers is a formidable force.”

“A _khalasar_ ,” Haldon corrected, waving a hand in dismissal and ignoring Jon Connington’s glare. “Which means that Viserys and his sister now have the beginnings of a fighting force.”

“The Dothraki have never crossed the ocean. They will not do so now.” Captain Hao Su crossed her arms and frowned.

Gerion shook his head. “Even if they did not, they could be used to conquer and secure armies that would do so.”

This was the reason they’d all gathered. Her aunt and uncle had begun to build an army to take back the Iron Throne for themselves. Rhaenys had never met her aunt Danaerys; the younger girl had been born after…after everything had happened. And while Rhaenys knew she had likely met Viserys in King’s Landing, she had been too young to remember it. Which was just as well, she supposed, because what she had heard of him from Haldon’s spies was not kind.

So Gerion and the others worried that Viserys and Danaerys would claim the throne themselves before she could gather an army to avenge her family. Rhaenys had always wondered why her supporters hadn’t simply joined with those that had rescued her aunt and uncle. But Septa Lemore said that it wasn’t safe, when Viserys and Danaerys were known targets. The world believed Rhaenys dead, and it was that knowledge that had allowed Gerion and Jon to keep her safe and gather resources. Rhaenys had never had to worry about assassins.

People did not send assassins after dead children.

“In order to pay for mercenaries or any fighting force, we’ll need money.” Septa Lemore said, breaking the silence that had begun to settle after Gerion’s last remark.

“We’ve been asking discreetly from those than can be trusted back in Westeros, but the list is too short. The wealthiest families don’t want to break up the peace, even for their rightful queen.” Sir Connington’s expression darkened.

“But they don’t think I’m their rightful queen,” Rhaenys replied, and if there was a bitterness to her voice, the others did not mention it. 

There was a long pause. Rhaenys had known since she was a child that the people of Westeros were not waiting for her with hopeful hearts and Targaryen flags stowed beneath their beds. They thought she was dead…and even if they didn’t think so, the common folk did not care. Whoever ruled them didn’t matter, so long as their sons were not conscripted to die in another war. The nobility were the ones that needed to be convinced…and they were growing fat in peacetime. Why disrupt that for a girl none of them remembered, who they’d never thought to avenge before, despite how gruesome her murder had been?

“An alliance through marriage—” Haldon began, but was cut off by Sir Connington, voice raised in anger.

“With who? Her uncle Viserys? Or her cousin Trystane? The Martells may be aiding us discreetly, but Prince Doran would not put his family and Dorne needlessly _at risk_ with such a promise of marriage.” The disdain that Sir Connington felt for the Martells was obvious, and it made Rhaenys’ skin itch. There had been more than one time, when she’d seen him look at her and knew he was seeing her mother in her place. It was only the Targaryen blood running through her veins that mattered to him. Her _father’s_ blood. She tried not to be bitter, but the hollowness of that grudge clung to her like a leech.  

“And we’ve read the reports from Illyrio,” Septa Lemore continued, her voice an even tenor to Connington’s growl. “Viserys is cruel. He would not let himself remain a consort to the queen. He thinks he is the rightful heir.”

“If Prince _Oberyn_ were told that Rhaenys yet lives—”

“We need money.” Gerion shook his head. It always came down to that. Coin. Kingdoms were not built upon loyalty and honor, Rhaenys knew that as surely as she knew that the sun would rise each morning. Kingdoms and their machinations all required gold. And that was something she had very little of. It made her a very poor match for anyone.

Haldon voiced her thoughts aloud moments later, “Rhaenys has nothing to her name that would make for a lucrative alliance. None of the Free Cities would want to give their sons up to die in the oncoming war, not without incentive.”

“You would marry our hope off to a _merchant_?” The deep timbre of Connington’s voice threatened to give way to a roar.

“Unless you wish her to marry into one of the noble families of Slaver’s Bay?” Haldon snapped back. “Westeros is free, they’ll expect compensation if we were to enter an alliance. They’d expect _slaves_.”

Rhaenys bit the inside of her cheek to keep from saying something foolish. She didn’t like it, when they called her that. _Our hope_. Like she was something foretold. Like she was part of a _prophecy_. She hated prophecies, hated them to the core. A prophecy had destroyed her family. She wouldn’t be part of one ever again.

“As I have said before,” Gerion broke in, before Haldon and Connington's disagreements could devolve into a shouting match, “No one would marry our Rhaenys regardless. She has no power or wealth at the moment, only her name. And there will be many who will refute it. We need to convince the bankers of Braavos before anyone else.”

Haldon and Connington looked at one another, neither entirely appeased, before Connington shrugged, “I suppose you’re right.”

“To Braavos then?” Gerion turned to Hao Su.

Gerion may have been a Lannister, but the _Sea Whisper_ was Hao Su’s ship, and she was the leading authority on-board. The captain turned a thoughtful eye toward Rhaenys, and for a moment Rhaenys worried that she’d say no. But then Hao Su gave a curt nod, the corner of her lip twitching into a scarred semblance of a smile. “To Braavos.”

They made plans then, going over the details of their stories to tell the Iron Bank and anyone who stopped them on the streets. Rhaenys would have to become Nadia Sand in full, for a time. By the time she and the others left the cabin, the afternoon had begun to dim to twilight, and Hao Su had turned her ship in the direction of their new port.

Rhaenys had never been to Braavos. Most of her life had been spent at sea, aboard the _Laughing Lion_ and then the _Sea Whisper._  But she knew of it from her studies, and from Omero, the Braavosi quartermaster.

Braavos of the Hundred Isles.

Rhaenys breathed in a deep lungful of sea air and smiled. _The bastard daughter of Valyria_ , some claimed. Rhaenys liked that name the best, oddly enough. The Targaryen’s were the same, weren’t they? The last remnants of an old empire, lowly and wretched and unworthy of attention. But the Targaryens had made something of themselves, and so had Braavos. The wealthiest of the free cities, brimming with gold and promise.

Rhaenys held up her water skein in a mock toast in the direction of the city. _From one bastard daughter to the next_ , she thought, before taking a drink.

 


	2. Braavos Arc: Chapter 1

 

 

“I can see it! Come up here, Miss Nadia!”

Rhaenys shielded her gaze to see a hand waving frantically in the crows nest, a slim shadow against the morning sun; little Nothres the cabin boy was on lookout duty today, it seemed.

She knew what ‘it’ was, of course. Ever since they’d begun sailing for Braavos, Rhaenys had kept her eyes peeled to the horizon, even when she’d known that they were still weeks away.

The rest of the crew were as eager to set foot on land as she was, but for very different reasons. To most of them this was just another stop on their route, a place to rest and recuperate after so long at sea before heading to the next port. To Rhaenys, this was the beginning of something new. They were finally _acting_ , not planning and plotting and whispering among themselves of what should be.

She couldn’t deny that sitting upon the Iron Throne was not what she truly wanted. She was not certain she would be a good queen, though she would try her hardest to be a competent one. She’d spent her childhood being told she was to rule, and no one had asked her if she wanted to. The important thing for _her_ was that this was a change. She would be able to be Rhaenys, to be a _daughter of Dorne_. Once she sat upon that throne, she would be able to visit her uncles, and they would tell her of her mother. She would get back _some_ of what had been stolen from her that day.

Rhaenys did not want to rule, but she wanted to see her family. She wanted the people that had followed her into exile to see _their_ families. Gerion and the others had risked everything to protect her, and she owed them for that.

Nadia Sand was a merchant’s daughter with an adventurer’s soul. But soon Rhaenys would put her away, tuck that name into the recesses of her heart to be pondered on days when the weight of her rule was too heavy to bear.

Until then, she’d make the most of it.

She scaled the net ladder with calloused hands, rope worn and sturdy, and the finesse of one accustomed to it after years at sea rather than some innate grace. The heavy ropes barely shifted in the wind, and Rhaenys had learned to move with their gentle sway long ago.

She remembered how terrified Septa Lemore had been, the first time Rhaenys had climbed up to the top. She’d gotten stuck in the crow’s nest, too afraid to climb back down afterward. Sir Connington had gone and fetched her, and she’d been scolded so thoroughly and her pride so wounded that no one had suspected she’d try again.

But she had, and she’d been rewarded with several blisters the second time around, and Sir Connington was tasked with fetching her once more, because she’d frozen up at the top just like before. The third time she’d frozen again, but the fourth…the fourth she’d managed it. And the pride she’d felt well up in her when her feet touched back on the deck made the scolding she’d received afterwards worth it.

There’d been no stopping her from climbing anything and everything after that point. Rhaenys hated being afraid; best to confront the fear head-on until it was no longer a problem.

Heights did not bother her anymore.

There was just enough room in the crows nest for herself and Nothres; the young boy was still scanning the horizon, and Rhaenys followed his line of sight to the small hint of a shadow to the east.

“You can look through the spyglass, but be careful. If you drop it, Jaka’ll throw me to the sharks,” The young boy said seriously, face grave. Rhaenys smiled and ruffled his hair before unfolding the spyglass and peering in the direction little Nothres had pointed.

Through the lens the Titan was more than a shadow on the horizon. It loomed high atop two jutting cliffs, sword held aloft in challenge. Another ship was just entering the lagoon, sailing beneath the behemoth. As it did so, an odd roar echoed across the water, making the hair on the back of her neck stand on end.

“What was that, miss Nadia?”

“That was the Titan of Braavos,” Rhaenys whispered, leaning forward eagerly. “They say it roars at morning, noon, and evening.”

“I don’t want to hear _that_ again,” Nothres scratched the back of his neck nervously.

Rhaenys sent him an apologetic smile as she handed the spyglass back to him. “You’ll have to hear it again soon, I’m afraid. It also roars every time a ship comes into the harbor.”

Duck was waiting for her when she reached the deck a few moments later, dressed in the Westerosi fashion; tights and a padded overtunic in dark green. It was unusual to see him dressed so primly, even if the fabric was plain and rather coarse; she was used to him in the loose breeches and shirts the sailors favored. He leaned against the central mast, arms crossed and grinning. “Septa Lemore was looking for you, Miss Nadia.”

It was time for her to change out of her sailor’s garb as well, it seemed. She supposed she looked very little like the spoiled, bastard daughter of a rich merchant, dressed as she was. Rhaenys glanced down at her clothing with a resigned sigh. She would miss the mobility of breeches.

 

* * *

 

Septa Lemore was waiting for her in their cabin, along with a dress.

“There’s no use in trying for a wash here,” Septa Lemore sighed, smoothing her own habit. “We’ll have a bath drawn for you at the inn. I don’t know if they plan on having you join them at the Iron Bank, but if so we’ll need to buy you a proper gown, likely one of Braavosi make for impression’s sake.”

If she were a _man_ there would be no question as to whether she joined Gerion and Haldon for negotiations with the Iron Bank. Rhaenys slipped her shift over her shoulders, and listened to Septa Lemore hum as she laced up the back.

“It seems like years since we last docked,” Septa Lemore commented, helping Rhaenys into her dress. “I’ve forgotten what dry land feels like.”

Rhaenys smiled, “It _has_ been a long while.” They had stopped in ports before, but never for long; never long enough to get accustomed to walking without the floor pitching beneath her feet. “Do you think the Iron Bank will fund our cause?”

“If not the Iron Bank then perhaps the Sealord,” Septa Lemore coiled Rhaenys’ braid around the nape of her neck, the motion followed by the telltale scrape of pins against her scalp. “The Gold Company will be yours, but armies are expensive to feed.”

“And mercenaries are expensive to keep regardless,” Rhaenys agreed. She knew that it took considerable coin to ensure the loyalty of mercenaries; they were swords for hire, and did not care for her cause, only the gold behind it.

“Here we are, let me look at you,” Septa Lemore turned her around, hands on her shoulders, and seemed to be searching for something in the lines of her face, a wistful expression on her own. She had to look up to do it and it was jarring for a moment, as Rhaenys realized she'd grown several inches taller than the older woman and hadn't taken notice till now.

“A final touch,” Septa Lemore murmured, more to herself than to Rhaenys, as she turned and pulled a small box out from her trunk and opened the ornate lid. Rhaenys knew what she was about to hand her even before she slipped it onto Rhaenys’ wrist.

It had been her mother’s bracelet, once; the only thing she had left of her.

Rhaenys couldn’t remember her mother’s face, or the sound of her voice. She couldn’t remember the way her hair smelled or the color of her favorite dress or the lullabies she’d sing. All Rhaenys had was the bracelet, with it’s tarnished golden band and a chipped ruby at its center. 

She wondered how it had looked on her mother’s wrist. Sometimes she’d look down at her own arm and try and see past the scars and the callouses and the chipped fingernails, but she never quite managed it.

A stranger’s hand; a distant, fading memory that distorted each time she took it out to ponder. 

But she was glad it was this, and not some Targaryen signet ring. She didn’t need anything of her father to remember him by, didn’t  _want_ to remember. 

She’d always thought it cruel, that fate would tear the warmth of her mother’s smile from her…but leave her with the memory of her father’s face.

“Come now,” Septa Lemore tore her own gaze away from the bracelet and smiled softly, “They’ll be waiting for us on deck.”

It was true, the others had all changed as well, and Gerion took her arm with a kind smile and steered her toward the bow of the ship.

Gerion leaned down, and spoke in a voice too soft for the others to hear, “Welcome to Braavos, your grace,” just as the _Sea Whisper_ sailed beneath the Titan’s legs.

She felt the Titan’s roar in her bones, an awe-inspiring ache that traveled from her toes to the tips of her fingers still clutching the railing.

 

* * *

 

The docks were an organized chaos that Rhaenys could only admire for so long before she feared being swept away in the crowd. The smell of fish was nearly overwhelming; Rhaenys saw Haldon press a perfumed handkerchief to his nose, face pinched in displeasure as he headed toward the dockmaster to discuss the arrangements of the _Sea Whisper_ and its crew and cargo. Captain Hao Su walked with him, looking as if she wasn’t bothered by the smell at all.

All incoming cargo had to be looked over by the Sealord’s custom officers here in Chequy Port, before the _Sea Whisper_ could be moved to the Outer Port to dock for the rest of their stay.

“Come, Miss Nadia,” Septa Lemore called, tucking Rhaenys’ hand into the crook of her elbow. “Your father has already made arrangements for us at The House of the Seven Lamps.”

Jon walked behind them, looking every inch like a guard standing beside his patron—but Gerion was not his main concern. Rhaenys wondered how obvious it must have been, with the way he tensed every time someone walked a bit too close to her open side. Even Septa Lemore, for all her soft chatting as she pointed out buildings to Rhaenys, kept her grip firmly on Rhaenys’ hand and pressed close to her other side; so close Rhaenys could feel the hilt of the dagger beneath her habit.

No one was more obvious than Duck, of course, who brought up the rear and seemed near to unsheathing his sword at the end of each street. Rhaenys knew there was nothing to give away, that to the outside they looked simply like a merchant traveling with his daughter and several protective guards, but it did not stop her from worrying that somehow they’d tipped their hand.

The House of the Seven Lamps was a large building that smelled strongly of incense. The air was thick with it, nearly overwhelming as they went from the bright sunlight of the open air to the dimly lit tavern of the inn’s main floor.

This time of day there were a few patrons milling about the tables; a group of merchants had settled themselves at the tables closest to the bar, and several men smelling strongly of fish peppered the smaller tables along one wall.

It was a nice enough place—appropriate for a well-off merchant, and relatively clean. Rhaenys knew that it was secure, or at the very least was easily made so, if Gerion and Sir Connington had chosen it for their stay in Braavos. It would serve its purpose, and it certainly had more space to walk than a ship, so Rhaenys could hardly complain.

Gerion spoke to the innkeep, who shouted across the room for a young, plainly dressed boy who hurriedly led them to the second floor.

There were two rooms, connected by a small washing chamber whose tarnished brass tub was currently empty. Gerion handed the boy a coin, and told him to show Haldon to their rooms when he arrived. The boy pocketed it reverently, wide eyed, and Rhaenys wasn’t certain if he’d remember to do as he was told or rush off to spend it on sweets.

“Tomorrow you and I shall visit the Sept,” Septa Lemore placed Rhaenys’ travel bag on the small table in the corner, as Duck and Jon carried up the larger trunks from the cart downstairs. Rhaenys nodded absently as she opened the singular window and peered down at the street.

Gerion came to stand beside her and rested his arms along the windowsill. His gaze was thoughtful as he watched the people below on the crowded canal streets. “We have much to do, now.”

Rhaenys nodded.

“I promised I would return you to your throne, and I will keep that promise,” Gerion sighed, “But I am not certain it will happen quickly.”

Rhaenys knew that, of course. She was impatient, impatient to be _doing_ something, but that didn’t mean she thought everything would fall into place quickly. It had taken years to get this far. She knew it would likely take many more to get to Westeros.

Even if the Iron Bank decided to fund her campaign they would still need to find those willing to be bought...and those loyal without coin. The first was easier than the latter, but both would take time.

His hand was warm on her shoulder as he gave it a gentle squeeze. “Please be patient with us for a while longer, Your Grace.”

Rhaenys offered him a smile. “I have waited this long, I can wait a few years longer, Gerion.”

Gerion graced her with a smile of his own before he turned back to watch Jon and Duck settle the last of the trunks into the room, and they all turned toward him for direction.

“Well,” Gerion clapped his hands together, “Let us eat while the day’s catch is still fresh.”

The merchants had left by the time Rhaenys and the others entered the tavern again. Sir Connington sat himself nearest to the door, arms crossed, surly and unwelcoming; being in an unfamiliar place had only heightened his gruff nature.

Rhaenys supposed they were all caught off guard by the change. It was difficult and a little overwhelming to be surrounded by strangers when she’d spent nearly her entire life on a ship with one crew.

The fish stew was steaming when it arrived, and smelled strongly of seasonings that Rhaenys did not recognize. It was filling and delicious, a proper first meal off a ship where she’d lived off salted meat, hardtack, and oranges.

If this was to be their fare for the remainder of their time in Braavos, Rhaenys had no complaints.

 

* * *

 

It was late when Haldon finally returned from the docks. Hao Su would remain with the _Sea Whisper_ until they left; she never felt quite right on land, and rarely stayed off her ship for more than a night.

Haldon’s face was drawn as he opened the doors to their rooms, his usually pressed robe wrinkled and his hair mussed. They had all situated themselves in the larger one for the evening, to wait for Haldon’s return.

“I have sent a request for a meeting with the Iron Bank,” Haldon sat himself down beside Gerion at the table with a tired groan. “We should receive a summons within two days.”

Rhaenys knew better than to ask, for she knew the answer, but she couldn’t help speaking. “Am I to come with you?”

“Certainly not,” Haldon scoffed. “It is a simple task we are to perform, you need not be present.”

“It isn’t safe. You will remain here,” Sir Connington agreed.

The chorus of rejections hurt more than she’d expected. She had been so excited to finally do something...she should have realized it would be more of the same, more of others making decisions for her.

Surely if they wished her to rule one day, they’d want her to begin making decisions. _They do not want me to rule, they want my husband to rule while I give birth to heirs,_ she thought bitterly, and felt guilty a moment later. That was disingenuous of her. These people had risked their lives—still _were_ risking them—to keep her safe.

“Shall we go for a walk?” Gerion asked, expression thoughtful. “I have been told that the canals are quite beautiful at night.

“Do I have a choice?” She snapped, and the look of disappointment on Gerion’s face made her pause, but did not quiet her anger. She did not wish to come off as a petulant child whining about the unfairness of her situation, but it was difficult not to utter the words.

“You could remain at the inn if you’d like, of course.” Gerion nodded, “If that’s what you’d prefer.”

“I would prefer I be given a chance to speak on my own behalf to the Iron Bank.”

“It is beneath a queen to haggle like a fishmonger’s wife,” Haldon responded, waving his hand dismissively. He seemed far more interested in the missive he’d received from their spies than talking further.

_A fishmonger’s wife has a voice, at least_ , Rhaenys thought bitterly. “If I were a man, I would be there.”

There was a long silence. Haldon cleared his throat, his expression pinched and pensive, as if he found the situation too uncomfortable to continue. “This is not a discussion for today.”

It never was.

“Daughter,” Gerion murmured, “Shall we?” The last thing any of them wanted was for her to make a scene. It hurt even more that Gerion thought she would do so. She contemplated declining Gerion’s offer, but that was a childish whim. In the end she wanted to go and see Braavos, and sitting in her room moping over the unfairness of her situation wouldn’t fix anything.

So she took Gerion’s hand and let him steer her toward the door, even though she felt like yelling. _A queen must comport herself with grace_ , Septa Lemore always told her. Grace did not come easily, nor comportment, but Rhaenys would try.

This would not be the last time she brought up the subject of going to the Iron Bank, but she would let the matter lie for now.

The air was a mixture of brine, overripe wine, and a terrible concoction of perfumes that drifted from the pleasure quarter. It made Rhaenys miss the sharp sea air of the open ocean.

“The courtesans of Braavos are quite famous,” Gerion murmured, as he led her across one of the long, stone bridges.

Rhaenys remembered hearing of the courtesans during her lessons with Haldon and Septa Lemore. Of course neither had gone into detail about them—as if Rhaenys had not grown up on a ship full of sailors, and wouldn’t know what being a courtesan implied.

She looked over at the large, well-lit barges, as the sounds of music and laughter drifted across the water. “Tell me about them.”

“The second Black Pearl was the illegitimate daughter of Aegon IV. Her granddaughter is the current Black Pearl of Braavos. That is her barge there, I believe.” Gerion gestured to a large barge with a gauzy midnight blue canopy and the sound of harps.

Rhaenys had learned of Aegon the Unworthy in her lessons; of his legitimizing five of his bastard children and causing generations of war and strife. His one major flaw, Haldon always told her, was that of all the things he could rule, he could not rule himself, and his vices led to destruction and dissidence. A cautionary tale, Rhaenys knew. Meant to remind her that she must uphold her virtues, and remain steadfast in her will.

But Rhaenys couldn’t help but be a bit grateful for Aegon the Unworthy’s faults, knowing that somewhere out there on one of those barges was a relative, whole and safe and living a life free of the troubles of the throne.

“Have you ever met a courtesan?” Rhaenys asked as they continued their walk. The smell of roasting meat wafted from the open doorway of a tavern as they passed, and Rhaenys was reminded that she hadn’t eaten since that afternoon.

Gerion laughed, “Do I seem rich enough to have met a courtesan, daughter?” Gerion Lannister would have been rich enough to spend an evening or several with a courtesan of Braavos, but Belin Hurrey, Westerosi merchant, would never have the coin for such a thing.

Rhaenys smiled back, “Was my mother so beautiful that you never thought to spend your coin elsewhere?”

Gerion’s expression turned thoughtful, “Your mother was the kindest woman in the world.” There was something in his tone that made Rhaenys think he was not speaking of the Dornish prostitute that had birthed Nadia Sand.

Of all her traveling companions Gerion was the only one who spoke of her. Jon had been her father’s friend, and had never thought kindly of Elia Martell, and if Haldon or Septa Lemore had met her, they made no mention of it. Rhaenys remembered late nights near the fire curled up in Gerion’s lap as she peppered him with questions, and the soft timbre of his voice as he told her of Elia’s days at court.

Treasured memories and stories, even if they were not her own. They were something, a piece of her mother she kept, so that no one would forget.

“What of the other courtesans? Do they have names?” She didn’t want to speak of her mother here; it seemed too personal a subject for so public a place, even if no one here would know who Gerion spoke of.

Gerion nodded, shaken from his own reverie. “There is the Nightingale of course. Men are challenged to duels if they do not say that the Nightingale is the most beautiful woman in the world when asked...”

 

* * *

 

The summons from the Iron Bank arrived over breakfast, and Haldon and Gerion hurriedly finished their meal while Rhaenys tried her hardest not to glower.

Septa Lemore seemed to realize that Rhaenys needed to be out before she exploded, so she suggested they head to the Isle of the Gods to visit the Sept, as she had mentioned the day before.

It was not Rhaenys’ idea of an afternoon well spent, but at least it was _something_.

The Sept Beyond the Sea was located on a small island off of the Isle of the Gods, one of the central islands of Braavos and located near the junction of the Canal of Heroes and the Long Canal. She could see the steepled red roof of the Temple of the Lord of Light in the distance, across the patchwork rooftops of the many temples on the island proper.

The crew of the _Sea Whisper_ were a motley bunch; many had carried small tokens of their gods with them, or built tiny shrines beneath their bunks belowdeck. Rhaenys wondered how many would come here before the week was out, to pay their respects to their gods.

Rhaenys herself did not know what she believed, or if she believed at all. She had been taught the Faith of the Seven by Septa Lemore, the prevailing religion of Westeros, but it had never seemed more to her than a litany she repeated for the Septa’s sake.

What use were the gods if they did nothing for those that worshiped them? She had yet to see any proof that they aided their communicants; if they existed at all, they were unconcerned with the lives of the humans that gave them offerings.

A portly septon was leading a service when Rhaenys and Septa Lemore entered. The pews were sparse; very few Braavosi worshiped the Seven, its purpose more for Westerosi sailors than the locals. Those within followed the septon in song, a tune that Rhaenys knew from Septa Lemore’s daily prayers. The older woman led Rhaenys toward one of the back pews, head bowed in reverence.

Rhaenys tried to focus on the rise and fall of the septon’s voice, but found her thoughts wandering. The incense was thick, and mixed with the odor of the nearby sailors, left a sour taste in the back of Rhaenys’ throat.

When the service ended a long-faced septa stopped them at the door, to speak with Septa Lemore. The look the woman gave and the surety with which she approached made Rhaenys believe she was one of Haldon’s spies, here to give Septa Lemore information more than to discuss their shared faith.

Rhaenys left Septa Lemore to her talk, and paused at the top of the stairs to wait for her. The Sept and its worshippers made her uncomfortable, and she vastly preferred the smell of fresh air to the smoky recesses of the domed chapel.

Well, it would be alright, would it not, if she looked around at the other temples? She would not be far, and she would stay within sight of the Sept. With that thought in mind she headed down the stairs, careful to keep from stepping on the hem of her gown.

Each of the smaller islands that made up the Isle were connected by simple bridges, weather-worn but sturdy. Rhaenys crossed the largest and walked along the beaten path, taking in the carved shrines along the way.

Some were ornate, with gold leaf and inlaid mother of pearl, and painted wood so vibrant it gleamed. Others were simple: a worn alcove with a statue at its center, or a squat building that smelled of flowers. One was nothing more than a tower of thin, roughly hewn stones placed one atop the other.

Rhaenys recognized some of the temples from her studies, but most remained a mystery to her. There were more gods worshiped here than anywhere else on the world. Some liked to claim it was the reason Braavos could not be conquered.

Rhaenys knew it was the Sealord and his infamous fleet that kept it so, not some conglomeration of deities. Still, it wouldn’t stop her from enjoying the artistry of the shrines.

As she headed down a side street, she saw a singular bridge leading out to another solitary island.

A large square temple sat upon a rocky knoll of dark grey stone, with a black tiled roof and no windows. Its doors were immense, even from a distance, one white and one black. There was something carved into each side, but from her current position Rhaenys could not discern what it was.

Grey stone steps led down to a plain, empty dock.

As she took a step toward the building, a voice called out from behind her, “I would not enter there, dragon queen. You have cheated death, and death does not lose well.”

The voice was not particularly frightening, but the words themselves chilled her to the bone. _Dragon queen_. Rhaenys turned quickly, hand reaching for a blade that was not there, and faced the woman that had spoken.

Clinging to her face was a red lacquer mask made of interlocking shingles, like the tiled roofs of Hao Su’s homeland; the oily shine matched the glistening wetness of her eyes. Despite the sunlight of the early morning, the edges of her somber robe seemed shadowed and wavering.

Like smoke.

“You are mistaken, whatever it is you may think,” Rhaenys swallowed. For once she wished for Septa Lemore’s swift return, for even if she were to be chastised for running off, Septa Lemore would know how to deal with this mysterious woman and her knowing gaze.

“I am not,” The woman murmured, never blinking. “I am Quaithe, and you are who I have claimed.”

Rhaenys quickly glanced around, but the street was relatively empty; no one but the two of them could hear Quaith’s words. Her heart began to pound as she took a step back, “Who sent you?” She could make it to the Sept, if she needed to escape, she simply needed to turn left at the house of the Great Shepherd and across the bridge beside the three-turreted tower of the Trios. Septa Lemore and her dagger would be just inside.

“I was sent by no one,” Quaithe continued, “I mean you no ill-will, Rhaenys Targaryen.”

The sound of her name made her blood turn to ice.

“Your destiny will take you far from here, but your fate is carved in stone,” Quaithe continued, and her voice took on an odd cadence, eyes going glossy as she seemed to chant,

> “ _Twice royal and twice denied, by blood and by birth,_
> 
> _You will be crowned by sand and smoke._
> 
> _Gold your company, gold your wings, and gold the heads of your enemy_
> 
> _The dragon has three heads, but only two remain. Beware the false third._
> 
> _To go north, you must journey south, to reach the west you must go east._
> 
> _To go forward you must go back and to touch the light you must pass beneath the shadow.”_
> 
>  

A _prophecy_.

“You are mistaken,” Rhaenys asserted again, far harsher. The anger inside of her gave her courage, and she met Quaithe’s eerie gaze without flinching.

“Nadia!”

Rhaenys turned at the sound of Septa Lemore’s frantic call, just as the older woman turned the corner and spotted her, “I am here, Septa.” She glanced back, ready to call attention to Quaithe, but the masked woman was gone, leaving only the smell of her sandalwood perfume to prove she’d been there at all.

 

* * *

 

Rhaenys barely heard the scolding Septa Lemore delivered upon their return to the inn, her conversation with the mysterious Quaithe repeating in her mind as they walked. She apologized and promised she would not wander off again, and inwardly vowed she would think no more of prophecies.

Prophecies were poison, she would have no part in one.

She spent the rest of the day learning of the noble houses of Braavos from the Septa, a rather dry and dull affair that Rhaenys suspected was given as a punishment, for usually the Septa made her lessons far more agreeable.

The sun was nearly set when Gerion and Haldon returned.

“The Iron Bank representatives would not see us today. We were told to return in the morning,” Gerion sighed.

While Gerion looked merely weary from the ordeal, Haldon seemed near fuming. “Made to wait the entirety of the afternoon in that small room, packed like sardines with the commonfolk, and then dismissed without an explanation—I have never _felt_ so insulted!”

“It cannot be helped,” Gerion shook his head. “I am acting as a merchant, there is no reason for the Iron Bank to treat me with any formalities.”

Rhaenys held her tongue this time, and did not ask if she could go with them in the morning. It would only cause more arguing, and she was already on edge. She needed a distraction for her restlessness, so she stood and headed into the smaller room reserved for her and Septa Lemore as the others continued their discussion.

It was a simple thing, to change into a tunic and breeches. She had several sets of her own, from her time on the Sea Whisper. The night air had begun to chill, so she opened her trunk and pulled out a decorative doublet.

Rhaenys tightened her sword belt strap with a thoughtful frown. The weight of her blade was a comfort, as was the small sunburst design carved into its hilt. It was of Dornish make, elegant and light and slightly curved, a gift from her Uncle Doran. Rhaenys often wondered if the sword had any particular meaning, other than being Dornish. Had it been a blade wielded by some great Dornish warrior? Or had it simply been a weapon picked from the Martell armory where it had begun to collect dust?

Whatever its origin, the blade was dear to her. When she’d first received it, she’d asked why she couldn’t wield a spear instead. Spears were the weapons of Dorne, after all. Surely sending her a spear would have been more appropriate.

“ _You’re a Targaryen, not a Martell_.” Gerion had reminded her, and though he’d meant nothing cruel by it, the words had stung. To others being a Targaryen meant more; being a Targaryen was _better_. Perhaps she could have taken more pride in her Targaryen blood if her skin was lighter, or her eyes not so dark the purple was nearly invisible, or her father a better man than he had been.

But the fact remained that all of those things were set in stone and could not be changed. And so she longed to know more about her mother who died for her, whose skin was dark and whose eyes were warm and whose face she’d forgotten. She longed for Dorne, a land she’d never seen, because Dorne somehow meant home.

_One day_ , she thought, as she ran her thumb along the raised hilt design. _One day_.

It had been a fight, to get her protectors to allow her to wield it. The argument that had ensued had seemed endless.

“ _Women do not need swords.”_

“ _We will protect her so she need not do so herself!”_

But where had they been when her mother had been murdered? Where had that promise of protection held true? She remembered little of her childhood in King’s Landing, but she would never forget that fear and feeling of helplessness as she’d been dragged from under her father’s bed.

She refused to be that powerless ever again.

It had been Gerion that had fought for her when she’d come to him in tears, frustrated by her own lack of choice. The lack of power that came with being a princess rather than a prince.

“ _Rhaegar was no warrior, perhaps Rhaenys can be. She will learn to fight. A warrior queen could instill loyalty.”_

A warrior queen she was not yet, she knew. What she learned and which blades she wielded were monitored closely. Despite her aptitude for swordplay she’d never swung a blade heavier than her Dornish sword even though she’d been more than eager.

Septa Lemore said that larger muscles would make her unseemly for marriage. But no one was marrying Rhaenys for her _arms_ , they were marrying her for her name. She knew they’d overlook the size of her muscles for that.

“Come on, Duck,” Rhaenys ordered, walking into the adjoining room. “We’re going to enjoy ourselves tonight.”

Sir Connington frowned from where he sat, looking over missives with Haldon. “It isn’t safe to go out alone.”

“I am not going alone. I am taking Duck. No one is looking for me, Sir Connington. I do not need to be that wary.” She tried not to think of the masked woman Quaithe and her cryptic words. No one needed to know of her, not when Rhaenys herself was unsure of the woman’s significance. When she learned more, then...then she would tell the others. She did not trust the woman, that was for certain; a stranger who recognized her and spouted prophecies was a threat. Yet she couldn’t bring herself to divulge that secret.

Perhaps it was a simple act of rebellion, after so much had been chosen for her without her consent.

“There are dangers for any woman walking the streets at night. I should go with you.”

“We will stick to the well-light streets, Sir Connington,” Duck stepped forward. “I will protect her, I promise.” The surety in his voice was a comfort, and his expression was sincere but resolute as Jon looked ready to argue.

Duck would do whatever she asked of him, Rhaenys knew it with a certainty. He had been her sworn sword since the day she’d knighted him in that field, little arms trembling to hold a sword much too big for her ten years; the first member of her Queensguard.

Duck would be loyal to _her_ , not to whoever Sir Connington and Gerion and Haldon decided she would marry. Rhaenys’ throat tightened, as she tried to shove down the bitterness that filled her at the thought, and focused on her fondness for Duck and endearing loyalty.

“Oh, let them go, Jon,” Gerion stepped into the hallway, “We have much to discuss tonight, and they will be back within two hours, I am certain.” Gerion’s expression told Rhaenys that if she were not back by then than she would never be allowed to set foot outside again without an entire guard present.

Gerion was giving her a chance at independence. Perhaps it was an apology of sorts, for not being allowed to go to the Iron Bank. Whatever it was, Rhaenys was grateful.

“Of course,” Rhaenys agreed, “We will not be gone long, just enough to get some fresh air. We won’t leave Ragman’s Harbor.”

“See that you do not,” Septa Lemore replied crisply, and Rhaenys wondered for a moment if she would tell the others about Rhaenys’ wandering off. But she merely settled herself down and picked up her embroidery.

Haldon’s gaze was searching, but he made no comment. It was only Sir Connington who still seemed against the idea. Rhaenys decided they should leave before he found some way to convince the others to keep her inside, and hurried toward the door, Duck at her heels.

Rhaenys stopped walking only when she could no longer see the tavern, and paused to glance around the brightly lit canal with a small smile.

“Where would you like to go first, Miss Nadia?” The way Duck said her name was stilted and uncertain—he had the hardest time with this charade, and seemed to find it uncomfortable not to call her “your grace” or “my queen”.

“They say the Nightingale will be at Moroggo’s. Would you like to see her?” Rhaenys asked, already walking down the well lit street. There seemed to be a festival of some sort, for the canals were lined with lanterns, and the sound of laughter and music echoed across the water.

Duck smiled, “They say she’s the prettiest courtesan in Braavos.”

Rhaenys nodded. “We won’t get many chances to see a courtesan, it would be fun to get a glimpse, wouldn’t it?” Once she became queen, she’d have no time to visit a famous courtesan, even though it would be the only time she’d have the title and wealth to do so. She’d have to make the most of the opportunities she had now.

They were halfway across the Black Canal when they heard the shout.

“You! A challenge!”

Duck already had his sword drawn, feet planted firmly in front of her as three Braavosi men stopped ahead of them on the narrow street.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I apologize for the long wait for this chapter. Moving, job hunting and general writer's block have been unkind as of late. I hope this chapter makes up for it!


	3. Interlude: Prince Doran

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Anon: Prompt for you! I would leave to see your take on any of the Martells from A Tale of Sand and Smoke. Maybe Elia before she died, or Doran, or the Sand Snakes?
> 
> Thank you so much for this prompt! I was really excited to get to write what happened from another point of view, to help fill in the gaps Rhaenys’ leaves in her own narrative. In the future I may do small little pov drabbles through the eyes of other characters, so feel free to suggest who you’d like to see.

_\---_

_On the surface you must be calm, my son. Calm as the still water of a pond. Below the surface you may rage, let your grief and your fury and your joy have no bounds, but let them remain below. You are to rule, and a ruler must be calm._

Prince Doran never forgot his mother’s words, not for a moment, not even when he learned of the death of Elia and her children.

Prince Doran mourned his sister privately. He stoked his rage, kept it inside, hot and burning, until the day he could unleash the wrath of Dorne upon King’s Landing. For his mother had taught him to remain calm, but to never become complacent.

A complacent prince was a weak prince, and a weak prince would never get revenge.

Oberyn was different, for he had the luxury of being open with his feelings. Oberyn shouted and raged for days; he paced in the throne room demanding justice and drank himself senseless and vowed vengeance.

No bodies, not a one; Elia and her children were burnt to ash with no ceremony. No one in Dorne was fooled; it was not to honor them as Targaryens with a Targaryen funeral.

It was to hide the horrors that had been done to them.

Their bodies should have been bathed with care, and wrapped in white linen. The streets should have been filled with wailing, the walls of Dorne should have  _trembled_  with the sound of their grief.

It was just one more violation, another crime to add to the list that Doran would exact one day. He wished he could let his brother know, could tell him that Doran had not forgotten their sister and her children, that he felt that same spiteful rage inside of him, burning in his stomach like acid.

But Oberyn could not know, not yet. Not until Doran had a plan.

“You let them kill her,” Oberyn slurred, knocking a tea set off a nearby table in Doran’s study. It crashed to the ground and shattered, and Doran held up a hand to stop Areo from stepping forward. Areo frowned, and kept close to his prince, one hand tight on his longaxe.

“You are a coward,” Oberyn continued, “They murdered her and her children and you sit here doing  _nothing_.”

 _Calm as the still water of a pond_ , Doran reminded himself, as he balled his hands into fists.

“If  _I_  ruled Dorne–”

“But you do not,” Doran snapped coldly. “I do.” He wanted to shout. He wanted to grab his brother by the shoulders and shake him until his teeth rattled. How dare he claim that Doran felt nothing? How  _dare_  he?

“If only it were not so, then perhaps our sister would still live,” Oberyn whispered darkly.

Those words, spoken by anyone else, would have been treason. But Doran knew his brother’s grief, and knew that it spoke loudest over reason, and he could not fault him for it. But the words stung, and Doran could not help the wave of guilt that overcame him.

Areo barked an order, and two guards stepped forward to pull Oberyn away. “Let go of me or I will kill you,” Oberyn hissed, and stormed out of the room himself.

Doran waited until the guards were gone before he placed his head in his hands and began to sob.

 

* * *

 

 

Oberyn did not speak to him for a long while after that day. He turned his anger outward, and began to rally support for Viserys Targaryen. It was no love for the Targaryen that drove Oberyn forward, no desire to see a dragon on the throne once more, but his deep-seated hatred for Robert Baratheon and his desire for revenge.

Doran wished he could so openly show his rage, but knew also the foolishness of it. Robert Baratheon was a warrior king, it would take very little to make him turn his sights upon Dorne. Doran could not allow him to make Dorne a target, not when he needed them to seem complacent and submissive so he could plan their true revenge in secret.

Jon Arryn, Lord of the Eyrie and Hand of the King, arrived in Dorne to broker peace, with Lewyn Martell’s body as tribute.

It was a slap in the face.

They delivered his uncle’s bones in a carved wooden box and expected him to be  _thankful_?

He dug his fingernails into the arm of his chair until the wood gave way to splinters, sharp and stinging. His face remained placid, as he listened to the old fool speak to him of peace and cooperation.

_Calm as the still water of a pond._

If his mother were alive, she would have smiled and plotted this man’s death behind a veneer of shining teeth. Doran could not muster the strength to smile, because all his willpower was concentrated on keeping his anger hidden.

But he gave a curt nod, and accepted his uncle’s bones with all the solemnity he could muster.  _Where are my sister’s ashes? Where are the ashes of her childen? You have picked my uncle’s bones clean like vultures, just as you have done to_ _Dorne_ _._

He imagined Jon Arryn’s head rolling across the tiled floor, and agreed to peace.

 

* * *

 

Prince Doran sent Oberyn out of Sunspear for the duration of Jon Arryn’s stay. He could not risk Jon Arryn’s death, not now, and he knew his brother would do so eagerly.

Doran held banquets, and smiled politely, and looked at the pale man before him with contempt. This man had thought Robert Baratheon was a just man. He had practically raised the boy into the violent beast he had become.

Had he thought nothing of Elia and her children? Had this man cared when they were brutally murdered and placed before his king in crimson cloaks? Prince Doran knew the rumors, that Robert Baratheon smiled when he saw their bodies.

Had this man smiled as well?

He drank far more than he should have, to wash the image away. He retired early for the evening, intent on sleeping off the wine, and nearly missed seeing the letter upon the table in his study. 

He recognized the wax seal upon it, one of the former noble houses of Yi Ti, that of his friend Bi Ming, who often played cyvasse with him when he was in Sunspear. He and his wife had a profitable merchant business which had kept their family afloat after having their noble titles stripped from them. Doran did not remember the details of it, for YiTish politics were twisting and complicated.

 

> _Old friend,_
> 
> _I have arrived in Sunspear and am waiting aboard my ship, the Snapdragon. I have a piece of cargo that I believe would interest you greatly, and invite you to visit me tonight. I will be gone by morning._
> 
> _Bi Ming_

How odd, to leave so quickly after arriving. If Doran had been sober, he likely would have sent Bi Ming a letter in return, saying he could not see him and offering apologies. But the wine made him curious, and his grief and anger needed distraction, and so he ordered Areo to take him to the port.

The Snapdragon was a small clipper, built for speed. It was not the typical mercantile vessel that Bi Ming usually sailed upon, and unease settled into Doran’s chest like a coiling serpent. Was this a trap of some kind? Areo’s expression was placid, but the tightness in his shoulders belied his own tension. Likely he was regretting not arguing with Doran over more guards.

His unease lessened, somewhat, as soon as they came abreast of the vessel, and Bi Ming stood upon its deck with a welcoming smile. “Your highness, thank you for coming to meet me. I apologize profoundly for such an unorthodox request.”

“How is your wife?” Doran asked with a polite smile.

“Well,” Bi Ming nodded, “She is in Quarth with our latest shipment.”

Bi Ming led him to the main cabin and stepped aside, so Doran could enter first. It was dimly lit, with a lantern gently swaying from a hook above a large cot, where a woman sat, humming softly to a sleeping child. A man stood to one side, looking out the porthole, his back to them. At the sound of the door opening he turned.

Doran unsheathed his shortsword before Areo could move, and pointed it at the fair-haired man before him. The weight of the weapon made his arm tremble–it had been so long since he had help a blade.

“Prince Doran, please,” Bi Ming closed the door behind him and stepped between the two. “Lord Gerion is not your enemy.”

“He is a Lannister,” Doran did not lower his blade, despite knowing the action made him far more like his brother than he preferred. “That makes him an enemy of Dorne.” He should have remembered that Bi Ming was a merchant now, and cared more for gold than for loyalty.  _Foolish_.

“Your Highness,” Gerion Lannister gently pushed Bi Ming aside, and stopped an inch shy of Doran’s blade. “I am here to make amends for my brother’s treachery.”

As if Doran could ever believe a Lannister. But as he glanced back at the woman seated on the cot and recognized her, he found himself lowering his weapon.

“I am sorry,” Gerion whispered, “I could not save them all.”

Save them all? Doran’s eyes rested once more on the child asleep on the cot, and his chest began to hurt. He stepped forward, barely believing. Surely this was a trick, another act of cruelty by the Lannisters and their usurper king.

But there she was, the very image of his sister, sleeping beneath a Lannister cloak. As he stepped closer he could see thin white scares peaking out from the collar of her dress. Despite the look of such painful wounds her expression was peaceful.

 _Rhaenys_.

“I will take her far away, where she will be safe.”

Doran wanted to object. Little Rhaenys, his sister’s firstborn, who looked so much like her mother…she should have grown up in Dorne, with her people.

But Gerion wass correct. She was not safe there, especially with Jon Arryn still in Sunspear.

“No one else knows of this?” Doran found himself asking, brushing a dark curl from Rhaenys’ forehead. She shifted in her sleep with a sigh, and a knot in Doran’s chest loosened at the sound.

“No one.”

Doran turned once more to Gerion, expression dark and solemn, “Why would you do this  _Lannister_?”

He expected to hear something about honor, or legacy, or justice. Instead the handsome lion looked to Doran’s niece and shook his head.

“Elia always laughed at my stories.” As if that simple statement explained all. And perhaps it did, but Doran could find no kind sentiment for a man whose brother had ordered his sister’s slaughter.

Slowly, pieces of a plan began to formulate. Doran’s hunger for revenge for Elia’s death turned into something more. Revenge, yes, revenge he would have, but there would be so much more.

_A Dornish queen will sit upon the Iron Throne._

“Dorne will aid you in this,” Doran murmured, leaning down to place a kiss upon his niece’s forehead. He did not know if he would see her again, though he hoped it would be so. He would need to strengthen Dorne even more, to support Rhaenys and her claim.

He could not tell Oberyn. If his younger brother were to learn the truth he would topple mountains to get to her. Dorne…Dorne was not powerful enough, not yet. But soon, soon it would be.

 _You will have justice, Elia_ , Doran thought, as Areo sailed them back to Sunspear.

_And your daughter will have the throne._


End file.
